Shoddy Code Test

ShoddyProduct

ShoddyProduct

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If not for Wyrton being the only pilot they had on hand, their being in the beating heart of the Republic, and currently standing in a crowded diner, Corre would have taken his head from his shoulders and never thought of him again. Before she quite knew what she was doing, she found her hands balled into fists, one of them reaching for her hip, beneath her shawl. She took a pause when she realized, and not a moment after, Verse spoke.

That distraction was a saving grace, giving Corre something else to focus on entirely. Initially, she watched over her shoulder as Verse gave out the information she had requested. She felt some amount of pride in her, that she had even thought to do this, but would hardly mention it, especially right now. "No, Fondor does certainly have among the best shipyards in the galaxy, but nothing that could produce at this scale, or rate. But maybe they're recruiting shipwrights from there? It may still be worth investigating."

The metal composition, on the other hand, she had no explanation for. For everything to be exactly the same, exactly the same, down to a presumably molecular level... by any normal manufacturing process, to her knowledge, that should be impossible. Corre took the datapad as Verse relinquished it, scrolling through as her sister finsihed her own small speech, though one much more bearable.

"A navicomputer..." Her knowledge of starships, of any size, was admittedly not what it should have been, having not been taught in piloting much to this point. It had been on the list, before Jakal's untimely death, and she hadn't had much time to get lessons. "An infiltration could work, so long as no one aboard recognizes us. By nature, we will already hold authority. We would have to hope that Revan hasn't passed down any orders to specifically bar something of that nature." He likely had, of course, but it was worth testing. Many of the Empire would fear displeasing a Sith of any rank.

Corre set the datapad down, and followed Verse's gaze to the pilot. "I believe getting our hands on a navicomputer, as Verse said, may be our most clear path forward. It would have to hold navigational data from where it came from, unless they regularly purge that information, but if they do, that would likely make maintenance and repair substantially more difficult. If you have an objection, share, but please do make it succinct, I fear my head may split open if you begin rambling agian."
 
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CORRE KESYK

 
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test
test
test
"Dialogue test"
"Scarier dialogue test"​
loooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeest
Regular text hex: #c19153
Special dialogue hex: #e4736c
 
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Miasma. Of course, she knew that. Hannah probably did, too. They both read the dossiers, they'd been doing this too long to come in to a dagger op with someone with little to no experience completely blind. Ayla was new, and especially so to something that wasn't public facing. Frankly, it was a good thing Hannah was being insistent on following protocol. It set a good precedent, and Rowan knew she should be setting a similar example.

As such, she raised her hands in the air in an apologetic fashion towards her partner. "Right, you're right. No names." Regardless of the reprimand, the smile remained on her face. "As she said, I'm Songbird. She's Molt, a pleasure to meet you. Don't mind her demeanor, she's right in that we are in the field and should be a bit more careful."

She spared a glance up and down the boardwalk. It was late, and dark. Cloud cover wasn't total, but they hardly had the advantage of the dark in the middle of Atlantic City. "To answer your question, yes. I joined up a few months before her, but our first assignments were together. Haven't had many separate, only really when I need to make a public appearance. What about you? I know you're on the public side a little more, what have you gotten up to?"


(THIS IS THE VERSION FOR THE FONT I JUST DON'T WANT TO BOTHER REMOVING THIS POST)
 

Six years to the day. He’d managed, after twenty, to scrounge up enough gold from odd jobs to purchase his own plot of land, his own tools, the seeds to sow, the livestock to tend. It was sixteen long, hard years ago, and he’d done well for himself. Ironic, then, that six years ago, to the day, the fighting started.

Tensions between the Greatwyrms and the Giants had always been high. Neither one liked the other, and shared borders had always been contentious at best. Legends say that the Giants were there first, some descendant or creation of the Spirits that inhabited the land and rivers and skies. Those legends said that the Greatwyrms arrived thousands upon thousands of years after the Giants emerged, and began enforcing their will on the world that wasn’t rightfully theirs. It was only fair the Giants would be upset about this, but he always found it… strange, that they would act with such contempt for people like him. Ambivalent to his existence, to his chipping away an existence- they seemed so fundamentally unrelatable.

Not that he’d ever met one, or ever wanted to. No, he was quite fine living his simple life, providing for himself and sending the extra off to market in Atraxia. Now that was a god he could get behind, the Wyrm of harvest and growth. It was the difference between the Greatwyrms and the Giants. The Wyrms cared about them. Or, most of them did, and the ones who did helped them to exist. In his six years as a farmer, in these six years of war, Atraxia had only provided to him and those in his village, not taken, not destroyed. Not like-

A rumble through the earth shook him from his reminiscing. The entire village grew silent in an instant, down to the livestock. The air grew thick and they all froze in place and waited, silently, for what would come next.

A great gust of wind tore across the land, blowing over trees, shaking houses to their foundations. The farmer dug his pitchfork into the earth, kneeling against the wind, only rising once it had passed. Some nature spell from a Giant, meant to blow the village away, he thought. He turned to go back to his work, resolute in the fact that the village still stood, in defiance to the perceived attack.

He, and the village, stopped once more, as a shadow passed over the sun. They all turned to look, and their faces fell in horror. The clouds had parted on account of a great arrow, a Wyrmstake, tearing the veil to pieces to find its mark. Ataxia was plummeting from the sky, shot dead by a Giant, straight for the village.

His hatred grew, but there was no time to flee. There would never be time for revenge. Her body wouldn’t dissipate before she flattened the village beneath her mountainous form, her stone, moss-grown scales heavy enough on their own to do the job.

—-------------------------------------------------------

In six years, the deadly war of attrition between the Greatwyrms, the physical gods of the world, and the Giants, the worldtenders, had reached its peak. Hostilities were high, with the Wyrms gathering their mortal armies to track and hunt the Giants to their homes, their cities in the mountains, and slaughter them. The conflict touched every part of the world, whether they were aware of it or not. Magic, once reserved for the Wyrms and the Spirits and the Giants, made its way to mortal hands, taught by the Wyrms to enable this fighting. In retaliation, the Giants began teaching their descendants their own skills, and thus the fighting bled to the realm of the mundane, as well.

It was a time of upheaval, of change and chaos. Mortalkind found themselves more and more used as pawns in this great conflict, and all the while, they turned on themselves, in kind. With the Weave now accessible by mortal hands, brigands and bandits began their sinister work, using the chaos of the fighting to hoard riches for themselves. Cults of the more chaotic Wyrms, those who were not as kind and benevolent as those sung about in ballads, began to aggregate power, pushing more and more of their own into the fighting.

Monsters appeared three years into the conflict. Once a rare occurrence of a Spirit made unhappy, through ignorance or deceit, they have now become commonplace. Some believe it to be the Spirits attempting to balance the scales, to reverse the changes brought on by the Wyrms. Others believe it to be an attempt by the Giants to create an army beyond mortal strength, to wipe them out permanently.

Of course, with war comes opportunity. In ruined cities and burning battlefields, in the hordes of dragons and in the mountains of the Giants, riches lie in wait, ripe for the taking. Many have left their homes, some to fight, others to flee the monsters or the war, and others still to find their riches amidst the chaos. In the far flung corners of the world, untouched by the fighting so far, a vault sits sealed, the promise of power locked within, waiting for whoever may seek it.
text color: #b4b4b4
dialogue color: #ffdc72
"dialogue test"​
 
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Six years to the day. He’d managed, after twenty, to scrounge up enough gold from odd jobs to purchase his own plot of land, his own tools, the seeds to sow, the livestock to tend. It was sixteen long, hard years ago, and he’d done well for himself. Ironic, then, that six years ago, to the day, the fighting started.

Tensions between the Greatwyrms and the Giants had always been high. Neither one liked the other, and shared borders had always been contentious at best. Legends say that the Giants were there first, some descendant or creation of the Spirits that inhabited the land and rivers and skies. Those legends said that the Greatwyrms arrived thousands upon thousands of years after the Giants emerged, and began enforcing their will on the world that wasn’t rightfully theirs. It was only fair the Giants would be upset about this, but he always found it… strange, that they would act with such contempt for people like him. Ambivalent to his existence, to his chipping away an existence- they seemed so fundamentally unrelatable.

Not that he’d ever met one, or ever wanted to. No, he was quite fine living his simple life, providing for himself and sending the extra off to market in Atraxia. Now that was a god he could get behind, the Wyrm of harvest and growth. It was the difference between the Greatwyrms and the Giants. The Wyrms cared about them. Or, most of them did, and the ones who did helped them to exist. In his six years as a farmer, in these six years of war, Atraxia had only provided to him and those in his village, not taken, not destroyed. Not like-

A rumble through the earth shook him from his reminiscing. The entire village grew silent in an instant, down to the livestock. The air grew thick and they all froze in place and waited, silently, for what would come next.

A great gust of wind tore across the land, blowing over trees, shaking houses to their foundations. The farmer dug his pitchfork into the earth, kneeling against the wind, only rising once it had passed. Some nature spell from a Giant, meant to blow the village away, he thought. He turned to go back to his work, resolute in the fact that the village still stood, in defiance to the perceived attack.

He, and the village, stopped once more, as a shadow passed over the sun. They all turned to look, and their faces fell in horror. The clouds had parted on account of a great arrow, a Wyrmstake, tearing the veil to pieces to find its mark. Ataxia was plummeting from the sky, shot dead by a Giant, straight for the village.

His hatred grew, but there was no time to flee. There would never be time for revenge. Her body wouldn’t dissipate before she flattened the village beneath her mountainous form, her stone, moss-grown scales heavy enough on their own to do the job.

—-------------------------------------------------------

In six years, the deadly war of attrition between the Greatwyrms, the physical gods of the world, and the Giants, the worldtenders, had reached its peak. Hostilities were high, with the Wyrms gathering their mortal armies to track and hunt the Giants to their homes, their cities in the mountains, and slaughter them. The conflict touched every part of the world, whether they were aware of it or not. Magic, once reserved for the Wyrms and the Spirits and the Giants, made its way to mortal hands, taught by the Wyrms to enable this fighting. In retaliation, the Giants began teaching their descendants their own skills, and thus the fighting bled to the realm of the mundane, as well.

It was a time of upheaval, of change and chaos. Mortalkind found themselves more and more used as pawns in this great conflict, and all the while, they turned on themselves, in kind. With the Weave now accessible by mortal hands, brigands and bandits began their sinister work, using the chaos of the fighting to hoard riches for themselves. Cults of the more chaotic Wyrms, those who were not as kind and benevolent as those sung about in ballads, began to aggregate power, pushing more and more of their own into the fighting.

Monsters appeared three years into the conflict. Once a rare occurrence of a Spirit made unhappy, through ignorance or deceit, they have now become commonplace. Some believe it to be the Spirits attempting to balance the scales, to reverse the changes brought on by the Wyrms. Others believe it to be an attempt by the Giants to create an army beyond mortal strength, to wipe them out permanently.

Of course, with war comes opportunity. In ruined cities and burning battlefields, in the hordes of dragons and in the mountains of the Giants, riches lie in wait, ripe for the taking. Many have left their homes, some to fight, others to flee the monsters or the war, and others still to find their riches amidst the chaos. In the far flung corners of the world, untouched by the fighting so far, a vault sits sealed, the promise of power locked within, waiting for whoever may seek it.
text color: #b4b4b4
dialogue color: #ffdc72
"dialogue test"​
 
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Deep in the recesses of his mind, Dzwonyr was being faced with a memory, a nightmare. Events still fresh on his mind, redisturbed by the fey charming magic, interferred with by the second presence sharing his form. The skin around the socket of his covered eye would burn with an icy cold, as slivers of ice pierced into his mind. No words were spoken, or thought, in this case, but all the same, he would be left with a deathly chill and the foreboding sense of dread as the charm fell away, leaving him seated in an armchair, thanks to Ashen Smoke.​
 
Viviane Othelia Allard
​
Race: Human
Gender: Female
Age: Twenty-four
Height: Five foot six
Weight: Is this a necessary question?

Virtues: I want to see people well, and to be someone they can look to in hard times. It’s important that the common folk have a strong figure to follow during the especially long winters, doubly so with the rumors of The Dark One returning.
Vices: I… suppose that I can be a bit vain, on occasion. Perhaps a bit disparaging and quick to judge.
Dreams: Despite my station, I want to adventure. The courtly politics and social gatherings, the dancing around meanings, it’s dreadful. I want to see what the world has to offer, I want to see if the stories sung about by bards are true.
Fears: Being lost and alone, both figuratively and I suppose literally. Being without direction, and with no one to truly confide in… It sounds horrible.

Occupation: Lady Viviane Othelia Allard, next in line to the Barony of Duleis, and everything the title entails.
Talents: I read, write, and speak well. I like to think that I make decisions well, and I’ve been taught to ride horses. Archery is a hobby, but I’m afraid I’m quite middling at that.

Appearance: I’m of slight build and fair skin. My hair is long and well-tended, brushed every night to ensure the light makes it look near golden. It’s important to keep oneself clean and taken care of, and the better you look, the better you feel. I’ll often get up in the early mornings to prepare myself for the day as the sun rises. Mother describes my eyes as emerald green, though I don’t think they quite have that much luster about them.

I dress as befitting of my title and station, though since beginning my travels, I have simplified a bit. Dresses and jewelry are standard, when not riding or practicing my archery. The family crest (a shield, divided in two longways, a lion on one side, a crane on the other) is often on my person, in the form of a ring or emblazoned on my clothing somewhere.

Travel: I’m making my way to Tullybrook to attend Lamplight College, as is standard for all nobility once they come of age and time allows. Just as my father, and his father before him, I'm making the journey, both to further my education and to witness firsthand the mess that Tullybrook has made of itself, in spite of its success.

That is, of course, the formal reason for my going. Truly, I jumped at the chance because it set me free of the castle, and let me breath more than a few hours of fresh air. This may be my chance, finally, to live out the adventure promised in the stories, and all those stories begin in Tullybrook.
 
Viviane Othelia Allard

-Characteristics-

Race: Human

Gender: You should refer to me as Lady.

Age: Twenty-four

Height: Five feet and six inches

Weight: Is this a necessary question?

-Personality-

Virtues: I want to see people well, and to be someone they can look to in hard times. It’s important that the common folk have a strong figure to follow during the especially long winters, doubly so with the rumors of The Dark One returning.

Vices: I… suppose that I can be a bit vain, on occasion. Perhaps a bit disparaging and quick to judge.

Dreams: Despite my station, I want to adventure. The courtly politics and social gatherings, the dancing around meanings, it’s dreadful. I want to see what the world has to offer, I want to see if the stories sung about by bards are true.

Fears: Being lost and alone, both figuratively and I suppose literally. Being without direction, and with no one to truly confide in… It sounds horrible.

-Abilities-

Occupation: Lady Viviane Othelia Allard, next in line to the Barony of Duleis, and everything the title entails.

Talents: I read, write, and speak well. I like to think that I make decisions well, and I’ve been taught to ride horses. Archery is a hobby, but I’m afraid I’m quite middling at that.

-Appearance-

I’m of slight build and fair skin. My hair is long and well-tended, brushed every night to ensure the light makes it look near golden. It’s important to keep oneself clean and taken care of, and the better you look, the better you feel. I’ll often get up in the early mornings to prepare myself for the day as the sun rises. Mother describes my eyes as emerald green, though I don’t think they quite have that much luster about them.

I dress as befitting of my title and station, though since beginning my travels, I have simplified a bit. Dresses and jewelry are standard, when not riding or practicing my archery. The family crest (a shield, divided in two longways, a lion on one side, a crane on the other) is often on my person, in the form of a ring or emblazoned on my clothing somewhere.

-Travel-

I’m making my way to Tullybrook to attend Lamplight College, as is standard for all nobility once they come of age and time allows. Just as my father, and his father before him, I'm making the journey, both to further my education and to witness firsthand the mess that Tullybrook has made of itself, in spite of its success.

That is, of course, the formal reason for my going. Truly, I jumped at the chance because it set me free of the castle, and let me breath more than a few hours of fresh air. This may be my chance, finally, to live out the adventure promised in the stories, and all those stories begin in Tullybrook.
 
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